Nobody Wants Reality
by Empire of Dust
Summary: Vignettes who have no other place than this.
1. How the Mighty Have Fallen

Life was an endless loop, a hamster running restlessly on a wheel that wouldn't stop turning. It was the same bullshit day in and day out: Shepard would go out, kill people in the name of "peace" (what a crude mockery that was), and tell herself sweet, sweet lies to make herself sleep at night. But was she really better than any of the people she shot? Was she truly a better person than they, so saintly and god-like was she; it was her given right to go around doing this? They all fought for the same reasons: to save their own hides, to live. Hell, she'd be surprised if any of them didn't think they were on the right side, fighting for all the right things—saving their homeland, protecting their families.

The hypocrisy sickened her. All of it was a cheap illusion of justice. And sometimes she could not wash their blood from her hands, their faces from her mind. But rubbing at her eyes did nothing, washing her hands could not wipe away the stains. The remorse ate away at her, made it hard to concentrate.

She was pathetic.

She was a sorry excuse for a soldier, for a savior of the universe. Shepard need not worry about such things as long as she got the job done. That was all that mattered.

Right?

It was hard to discern the truth from all the bullshit Cerberus fed her, and she honestly didn't know anymore. What was she to believe? Was she really anything more than some puppet for Cerberus to bounce around, to bend to their whims? She certainly didn't feel any different.

Her face is burning, her vision is blurry and the mirror in front of her showed back a person she didn't know. Or, at least, someone she knew once, but forgotten long ago. The memory of them is vague, and they are nothing more than a horrible imitation.

Red scars, long and curved and jagged; short black curls; dark brown eyes; mocha skin. And yet she doesn't know who stares back at her. It is impossible to tell, lately. So hard. And she is under the impression she wouldn't want to know.

_Sometimes… sometimes I think it would all just be so much easier if—_

"You are wanted in the debriefing room, Commander." EDI's voice intoned outside the door. The AI snapped Shepard from her thoughts. She clears her throat, wipes at her eyes.

"In a minute." Her voice was too husky, too full of an emotion that makes her feel hollow.

"Of course."

She was pathetic, surely. So cowardly was she, so goddamn _weak_. Shepard was no soldier. Shepard was unreliable, undependable. Why did they all follow her like this? Idolize her like some false deity? She didn't deserve it, any of it. She wanted them to stop, and so badly.


	2. Black Demons and Vultures

Breathing was a labour Shepard couldn't bear, a chore she found herself tiring of. The edges of her vision were tinged in black, demons waiting in the shadows to grip her. Shepard's hand never left the piece of metal piping that skewered the left side of her abdomen. Moving was a bad idea, a very, very bad notion, and even so much as twitching set her body ablaze.

Vaguely, she was aware of shapes moving in her vision, of a yellow smear and something that was black and white. People. People she knew she must remember from someplace. And voices; loud noises clouding her all ready foggy mind. It was too exhausting to try and recall them, but she slogs through her memory for the answers regardless.

"Shepard!" Miranda was the first to be at her side.

"Holy shit." Zaeed whispered.

More black shadows move in on her, hover like vultures waiting for her to expire.

"Don't move." A hand gripped hers and moved it out of the way, the orange light of an omni-tool glowing faintly. "Just—just keep still." She repeats. There was something accusatory in her voice, as if Shepard gleefully threw herself upon the piece of metal and decided to impale herself for the hell of it.

"This doesn't look good. I don't think there's any turning back from an injury like that." The man's scarred head bobs in the direction of Shepard, hands on hips as he watched on.

"Dammit Shepard, don't die on me now." Hands, cold hands, tapped the side of her face. Eyelids are the heaviest things in the world, and Shepard could not for the life of her keep them open. "Shit!"

"Afraid your pet project's gonna die on you? Unless—don't tell me you actually—"

Their voices became very far away, very minute and unintelligible then. Darkness claimed her, and she accepted it, arms wide open.

The rest of it was nothing but a blur, of pain on top of more hurt, and voices that talked.

"She came very close to death."

"Too close." Familiar icy fingers rested on Shepard's arm, her wrist, feeling. For a pulse, perhaps.

"All we can do now is wait and hope for the best. I've done all I could, the rest is up to Shepard."

High heels clack on the flooring, grow faint until they disappear.

And then more darkness, and more nothingness.


	3. These Fleeting Seconds

_It is quiet; night time and still she cannot sleep. Peyton Shepard lies on her back, her threadbare sheet trailing on the edge of the uncomfortable bed and onto the floor. The pale ceiling is all she sees from her vantage point, but it does not stop the million images that play across her mind. It is a movie screen, where she replays all of the memories that she'd rather lay to rest. _

The heat of summer scorches her skin, and she swings on a swing set rusted to a shambles. Kids her age—no older than six or five—shout in reckless abandon and hurried glee, playing their games of make-believe. But her mind drowns them out, and it is only her, flying ever higher on the cracking rubber seat. And for a moment, she is invincible and there can't possibly be anything to bring her down.

Not now. Not ever.

Soon she'll be joining the birds and the planes and soaring across the slums of Toronto. Just like in the news vids, with the people and their shiny ships and their shiny suits. Her tiny five-year-old hands reach out for the sky, the cotton swab clouds (the sun a menacing ball of yellow-red). She can't help the grin that rips across her face.

And it is glorious.

She is soaring, sky-high and infinite.

But it lasts only a fleeting second.

Her grin slips off her face and her arms whirl around as she fumbles in the air. This was not supposed to happen; she was not supposed to fail, not supposed to fall. Yet all she finds herself doing is clutching her broken arm and wondering why she could not fly.


	4. One Hundred and Four

_This body is not mine_. Is a thought that often crossed Shepard's mind.

And it occurs to her then that the heart that beats inside her chest does not belong to her; these lungs were not always breathing for her; those veins that run racetracks throughout her body were someone else's, and it makes Shepard sick to her stomach.

She is but the ugly amalgamation of a hundred and four different beings forced into one who did not even want them inside her. Some crude mock-up of what she once was, a patch-work monster of people long since dead.

How disgusting it made her feel, how revolted and worthless. A shudder rips down her spine at the mere notion that she is no better than something created from old parts and pieces.

And there are days when she feels herself losing her grip on what she has left of her mind (for surely Cerberus has all ready claimed their stake of her sanity), and the irrefutable presence of those one hundred and four beings pressing in on her conscious. And they are waiting, waiting in the dark, so patiently, for the day Shepard snaps and loses it all. Waiting, for the day to take back what is theirs.


	5. Intel

_A/N: Yeah, I know cancer is curable in the MEverse, and that cigarettes aren't all that of a big social taboo anymore. But this isn't supposed to be taken seriously; it is, after all, nonsensical drabble._

**##**

Peyton Hayley Shepard. Former member of the "Tenth Street Reds", hero of Elysium. Commander of the Normandy. Poses threat.

**Recent Extranet Search Summary:**

SEARCH: What does "Siha" stand for?

SEARCH: Commander Shepard funeral

SEARCH: Fire 333 Ridgeback /ERASED/Fire of 2166 at 333 Ridgeback towers, Toronto Canada

SEARCH: Tenth Street Reds fire 2166

SEARCH: Roderick William Shepard/MODFIFIED/ Roderick William Shepard obituary 2166

SEARCH: Cybernetics/MODIFIED/Smoking and cybernetics

SEARCH: Cancer and cybernetics/ERASED/Likelihood of cancer with cybernetics

SEARCH: Cancer symptoms

SEARCH: Islet cell cancer

SEARCH: Cures for cancer/MODIFIED/Pancreatic cancer cure

SEARCH: Pancreatic cancer treatment and survival rate

SEARCH: Ways to quit smoking

**Personal Correspondence:**

Inter-Relay Text Chat

Location: Citadel, Zakera Wards

To: WebMDAdmin734

From: N7SR1

20:01 WebMDAdmin734: Welcome! Thank you for choosing WebMD's fast, confidential and friendly chat hotlines. How may I help you?

20:01 N7SR1: Tell me the symptoms of human pancreatic cancer.

20:02 WMD: Most sufferers experience unexplained weight loss, nausea and vomiting, pain in the back or upper abdomen that may or may not

20:02 N7: What about islet cell cancer? Is that the same?

20:02 WMD: Islet cell cancer is a rare form of pancreatic cancer were

20:02 N7: Yeah, I know. But are the symptoms similar?

20:02 WMD: Not essentially. Islet cell cancer causes an increase in the production of insulin or hormones, causing dizziness, weakness, chills, muscle spasms or even diarrhea. There are two types of islet cell tumors: non-functioning and functioning, depending on the hormone being produced in excess.

20:03 N7: On top of the "normal" symptoms?

20:03 WMD: Yes, it is likely.

20:03 N7: What if I was to say I am experiencing some symptoms of pancreatic cancer?

20:03 WMD: Then I would suggest speaking to a medical professional.

20:03 N7: Are you one?

20:04 WMD: I am not authorized to tell you that.

20:04 N7: What treatments are available?

20:04 WMD: Most common cancers have all ready been conquered by modern medical science, however, there is no known "cure" available for human pancreatic/islet cell cancer to date. You can look into

20:04 N7: Why is that?

20:04 WMD: Pancreatic cancer is difficult to detect and diagnose early on in its development, therefore treatment for it does not promise the eradication of the malign tumors causing the cancer. Because it can be confused for other diseases and illnesses, designing a treatment that assures the full suppression of it is proving to be difficult.

20:04 N7: I still don't get it. Cancer is curable. So what makes this one so damn special?

20:05 WMD: Let me reiterate what I have said. Pancreatic cancer is in the early stages of having a cure designed for it. Most treatments regarding its "cure" are highly experimental in nature and do not guarantee any success.

20:05 N7: How come this one got shafted? I mean, you have cures for other types of cancer, but not this one?

20:05 WMD: It did not get "shafted", as you said. The most prevalent forms of cancer got top priority and

20:05 N7: Okay. So no cure. What are my options?

20:05 WMD: You can consider going to a medical professional and having tests done to properly diagnose the cancer. Depending on how far the pancreatic cancer has progressed, and whether or not it has spread to other places in the body, the tumor(s) have the possibility of being removed.

20:06 N7: But you said it is hard to detect early on, right?

20:06 WMD: Yes. If it is found before it has spread, pancreatic cancer can be controlled

20:06 N7: Let's just pretend that the pancreatic cancer is far in its "development". What then?

20:06 WMD: There are many wonderful palliative care options available for you to consider

[DISCONNECT]

**Recent Transactions  
**

VIDEO DOWNLOAD: Call me Sally

VIDEO DOWNLOAD: The Phage 2

VID BOOK PURCHASE: "Asari-Human Relations: How to Make it Work (Revised Edition with Foreword by Matriarch Lidnaya)"

VID BOOK PURCHASE: "The Art of Long Distance Relationships"


	6. For a Friend: These Things I Won't Tell

_A/N: Written for a friend of mine who saw what I wrote for my own Shepard and wish to have the same down for theirs. It was fun writing this character and I hope to do more of it in the future. If they happen to be so inclined._

**##**_  
_

Alexander Michael Shepard. Commander of the _Normandy._ Born in the slums of Earth, abandoned at age four and "raised" by the Tenth Street Reds. Sole survivor of Akuze; possible deep psychological trauma. Worth to keep an eye on.

**Extranet Activity**

Subscription Activated: BioTech Research Quarterly

Subscription Activated: Chess Secrets of the Masters

Subscription Cancelled: Dating Aliens: A Weekly Guide for Humans

Extranet Message: Image results for "Liara T'Soni"

Extranet Message: News summary for "Akuze"

**Recent Transactions**

VID BOOK PURCHASED: "Chess: 101 Moves to Beat Your Opponent in Five"

VID BOOK PURCHASED: "Philosophy for a Soldier"

VID BOOK PURCHASED: "Grieving and Loss: It Wasn't Your Fault"

VID BOOK PURCHASED: "Post-traumatic Stress Disorder and You"

VID BOOK PURCHASED: "Issues: Everyone Has Them"

**Recent Extranet Search Summary**

SEARCH: Survivors guilt

SEARCH: Akuze/MODIFIED/Akuze and Cerberus

SEARCH: Post-traumatic Stress Disorder

SEARCH: How to let someone down gently

SEARCH: Asari social cues for romantic interest

SEARCH: Asari body language

SEARCH: Tips to move on/ERASED/Unrequited feelings

SEARCH: Polite ways to let someone know their feelings are not returned

**Personal Correspondence**

Inter-Relay Text Chat

Location: [SECURE CHANNEL]

To: CmndrShep

From: MLawson

23:14 MLawson: Can we talk?

23:17 CmndrShep: I suppose.

23:17 ML: You seemed rather upset after Liara left your cabin. Anything you want to talk about?

23:20 CMS: No.

23:20 ML: Are you sure?

23:20 CMS: We have history, so we spent some time remembering a few things. A few people we lost.

23:20 ML: I know that. You can talk to me, Alex. You can trust me. Sometimes I wish

23:20 CMS: I am aware of that fact, Miranda.

23:20 ML: I asked you to call me Miri. Did… anything happen between you two?

23:25 CMS: You could say that.

23:25 ML: Like what?

23:35 CMS: Frankly, none of your business.

23:36 ML: I think I have a right to know who you spend your time with in your personal cabins, considering the things we've shared.

23:37 CMS: You talk of the night before the Omega Four Relay.

23:37 ML: Yes. Unless that didn't mean anything to you?

23:38 CMS: No, I did not mean that. I just meant

23:38 ML: Tell me, Alex, is there something I should know?

23:38 CMS: No, there isn't.

23:39 ML: I find that increasingly hard to believe, given the events of tonight.

23:39 CMS: Why don't you let me explain

23:39 ML: Drinks? Three hours spent holed up in your room, alone? I want you to tell me the truth. Do you care more for the asari or me?

23:40 CMS: I did not wish for this to turn out this way. Why don't you meet me in ten minutes. I'd rather talk to you in person to tell you this.

23:41 ML: So there is something between you and the asari whore.

23:41 CMS: She is not a whore.

23:41 ML: Well, she certainly had me fooled.

23:42 CMS: I did not take you to be one to resort to petty name calling. Why can't we be civil?

23:42 ML: Civil? You want me to be civil while you went behind my back and screwed Liara? I thought I could trust you.

23:42 CMS: You can trust me.

23:42 ML: You proved that tonight, didn't you? Why, you're a pinnacle of honesty, Alex.

23:43 CMS: Listen to me

23:43 ML: Is this what you had planned all along? To use me while Liara was busy in Illium?

23:48 CMS: I know I'm guilty of doing some pretty shitty things, but that is not one of them.

23:49 ML: Why don't I believe you?

23:50 CMS: I apologize. I should have never done this to you.

23:50 ML: No, you shouldn't have.

23:53 CMS: Goodbye, Miranda.

[DISCONNECT]


	7. Made of Iron, Made of Stone

It was hard to think of Shepard as merely human: she saved the galaxy, went to hell and back for people she didn't even know, and cheated death itself. Shepard being sick just didn't seem… _real_. Shepard being forced to her bed didn't seem all that believable. If anyone had told him that it was so, he would have called them daft.

But it was there, nonetheless.

Honestly, Thane should have seen it coming. She was pale, clammy and more short of fuse than usual. He really shouldn't have been surprised when she retched and vomited in the middle of the debriefing room, all over the front of Jacob's Cerberus uniform.

Her hands flew over her mouth and a look of horror contorted her face, which turned beet red. Beneath her hands, she chanted, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry". They all stared. They all stared at her wide-eyed and open mouthed, in odd mixtures of disbelief and disgust (Miranda flew a foot or two backward the minute Shepard doubled over).

Jacob was understandably mortified, torn between cleaning himself off and helping Shepard. In turn, the man began repeating, "It's okay, it's okay," as his hands awkwardly fluttered before his chest, his eyes unsure of were to rest (Shepard, or his hands, Shepard, or his barf covered clothes?). Everyone gave her a wide berth, as if she'd vomit again.

From the corner of his eye, Thane saw Jack bite her lip to stop herself from erupting in laughter. Grunt mumbled in outrage, not quite understanding why his beloved battlemaster would succumb to something so insipid as _sickness._ Surely she was stronger than that?

Mordin watched on with a clinical eye, and Miranda drew back a couple more feet, her pale skin growing paler (to think she was one for having such a weak stomach struck Thane as somewhat odd). Tali and Garrus whispered to each to other, always the outsiders in this strange group of mad scientists and justicars, of tank-bred beings and Cerberus lackeys.

Zaeed never did stick around long during the debriefings, Thane noticed.

"You all right, Shep?" Kasumi said, peeking over the shoulder of Mordin. Her voice held genuine concern, but she stayed where she was, eyes wary. Shepard groaned in response, her face still the deep shade of scarlet. Her eyes were rammed shut and she leaned against the table. She murmured something too low and too soft for Thane to catch, but Jacob's eyes grew apologetic and he, too, murmured something (those somethings perhaps not meant for other ears).

And yet it took a moment for someone to act, to break the invisible barrier and lend a hand. Thane surmised that someone should have been him, but Samara stepped forward and whispered to Shepard. A gentle hand placed upon her shoulder, the asari led her through the room and to the door, quieting her lamentations. Thane followed, leaving the others in their quiet discomfort.

"…it happens to the best of us." The drell caught the ends of a conversation.

"But there is so much—I need to—"

"To rest." Samara's voice was firm. "You need not push yourself when you are ill."

Shepard groaned again, but this time in discomfort, an arm wrapped around her middle. "I can't. There's no time to lie in bed with coverlets up to my chin. "A scathing look meant for Samara, made comical by her sickly pallor and hollow eyes.

"In such a state your judgment would be impaired. I would not have you make foolish decisions because you decide to push yourself past your limits." The scathing look was returned. Shepard withered, like a child reprimanded.

"I can't simply lay about—who will—"Her voice trailed off. She seemed to grow so small then, shrinking beneath Samara and her recrimination.

"Miranda can act in your place, Shepard." Thane surprised himself by speaking, the words leaping from his lips unbidden. They stopped in their tracks, regarding their new companion.

"She is your second in command, is she not?" Thane stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. Samara seemed to weigh the value of his words, lips pursed and a thoughtful expression playing on her face.

"Thane," she said, inclining her head. "assist Shepard to her quarters. I'll go ask Dr. Chakwas to see to her."

"I'm no _child_." Shepard objected. "I can walk myself to my own bedroom."

They ignored her.

"Of course." He replied, placing a hand upon Shepard's elbow. Samara smiled the briefest of smiles and left for the med-bay.

"She speaks the truth." He said when the asari was out of sight. Shepard glowered at him and they walked the rest of the way to the elevator in uncomfortable silence.

"I can take care of myself." She muttered, arms held close to her body.

"It is no crime to accept help when it is offered to you."

The elevator opened with a faint _whoosh_ and Thane was greeted by a spartan, well-kept room. Model ships adorned a wall that sat in front of a desk and computer, and a sadly empty fish tank glowed blue to the left. Deeper into the space was a threadbare bed and another desk with cramped seating. There was nothing in that room to suggest someone even so much as slept in it. It was bare, cold and unaccommodating.

So much like Shepard herself, in a way.

"I can take things from here." She said to him.

It didn't take a genius to read Shepard. Being ill, to her, was a sign of weakness, of some irreparable chink in her impenetrable armor. She tried so hard to be a pillar of strength for everyone around her, collapsing in front of them like that was torture, a sign of how she couldn't be all that they wanted her to be.

"You are only human."

Shepard shot him a crushed look, as if being reminded of her mortality hurt her greatly.

"Please," she laughed, and it was a hollow, ugly sound. "Don't remind me."


	8. Losing Ground

**A/N: I don't know what this is. Garbage, obviously.**

Placed neatly in two separate lines, on top of some shoddy paper report Miranda wanted her to read, was a fair amount of Red Sand she bought. A rotund volus on Illium, promising her "a helluva good time, granted you don't overdo it", then he wheezed and grew quite for what seemed a long time, as if the act of speaking winded him greatly. Though what the line between just enough and too much was happened to be lost on Peyton.

What was left of the Red Sand sat in a baggie not too far from the lines she made. She pressed the razor she stole from Jacob into her thumb, drops of blood staining the top of her desk, biting into an edge of the report she'll never read. Her heart beat a mile a minute, and her throat felt as if it was stuffed with cotton. With a hint of apprehension, she licked at her lips.  
She took the first line. Then the second.

In an instant her world was brilliant, a thousand dots of white dancing in her vision as her world became vermillion, washed in shades of angry red. A giggle escaped her as she leaned back in her swivel chair, letting the fleeting moment of euphoria wash over her. Her eyes landed on the report, and an idea struck her. With a flick of her wrist, the report and what was left of the Red Sand flew this way and that, enjoying her brief foray into life as a biotic. Idly, Peyton wondered what would happen if she fought Jacob or Miranda, who would win.

She felt powerful, all mighty. She felt as if she could go through the Omega Four Relay and take on the Collectors all by herself. Fuck the others. Fuck Cerberus. Fuck them all, the damn bastards. They'd only get in her way, anyway. Peyton didn't need them. She didn't need anyone.

Something dark and small moved in the corner of her vision, and caught Peyton off guard. A voice spoke in sharp disbelief. "Commander?"

Her world was then flipped upside down, and she found herself greeted by her pale, pale ceiling, and the beginnings of a massive headache. Kelly's face erupted into Peyton's line of vision, her bad haircut flopping into her eyes as she peered down at her. The fleeting moment of euphoria passed, and in its wake it left her feeling empty, hollow, and that hit her hard. A wheel of the swivel chair still spun wildly.

"I was just feeding your-I thought you were still talking to-" Those wild green eyes of hers flitted over the mess Peyton had made, never did meet her eyes.

Peyton's mind was reeling, throbbing, and she couldn't quite bear to stare at the ceiling. Or Kelly's disapproving eyes. So she rammed hers shut against the too-harsh lighting and the way Kelly's seemed to bore right into her.

"Oh god," she whimpered. Whether it was reluctance or simply a lack of will, Peyton did not move from her position on the floor. She just wanted Kelly to leave, to have no thoughts of running to Miranda and playing the game of blackmail. For she is sure Miranda would have a field day with this particular piece of information.

The high and mighty Commander Shepard, a duster! Who would have thought? It made her sick to her stomach just thinking about it, and she is under the impression that her relationship with her crew is not strong enough to withstand the whiplash if this was to ever reach their ears. The judgment they would bear might be too much for her to shoulder.

"Shepard?" Kelly's voice is small, then, so very tiny, and it is the only indication she received that she was actually still there. And not in the office of a certain Operative. "Are you… going to be all right?"

"Yes," she groaned. "just go." She tried to get up, failed in doing so and found Kelly's hand gripping her arm instead. Her spinning mind allowed no more than for her to sit up. Peyton tried to shake Kelly's hand free but the grip was relentlessly strong, and for one reason or another, she persisted in ignoring her wishes for her to leave.

"You should consider the option of seeking help, Commander."

"You should consider the option of showing yourself the door, _Yeoman_."

For a moment, their eyes locked until Peyton tore hers away, stared off past Kelly's head. Her jaw clenched and unclenched until she forced words past her teeth. "Leave." It was a terse bark devoid of any feeling, drained of any spark Peyton may have had before the encounter.

Finally, Kelly's hand released itself from her forearm, and hesitation danced in the air between the two. It took no genius to figure out that Kelly did not want to leave, was afraid to, maybe, due to some vain notion that the mighty Shepard would lose all control and "overdo it". Such a thought was amusing, really, almost comforting in the morbid sense she would not be bound by responsibility anymore.

Without another word, the Yeoman left.

Fuck the others. Fuck Cerberus. Fuck them all, the damn bastards. Peyton didn't need them. She didn't need anyone.


	9. These Lies Don't Satisfy

**A/N: Yet even more detrius salvaged from the waste land that is my flashdrive. This is the original _"One Hundred and Four"_, but I forget the reason why I never went with this. Anyway, enjoy the unedited, error-rife ficlet!**

This heart is not her heart. These lungs are not her lungs. Those veins are someone else's, and the thought makes Shepard sick to her stomach.

She is a crude amalgamation of what she fears to be a hundred different beings, synthesized into one who does not even wish to have them inside her. And she cannot help but wonder where Cerberus and Miranda had gotten the parts to rebuild her.

There is nothing of her new body that is truly Shepard's, save for her brain, and lately she has begun to wonder just how much hold she has even on her own mind.

But Shepard is too afraid to ask, to even enter the Operative's room for she knows she is nothing more than a test subject, something bred under harsh lab lights and burning scalpels. At least to her.

It took Shepard a week to work up the nerve to enter the uncomfortable room and its coldness.

Even then the woman observed her with a clinical fashion. Miranda is the scientist, and Shepard is the freak she brought back from the dead, a being she wrought with her genius and own two hands. Something for her to utilize and report on; examine and watch closely.

"What can I do for you, Shepard?" Miranda rested her chin on the top of her hands, a haughty smirk tugging at her wide mouth.

"I want to know how I was rebuilt." It was not a question the Cerberus Operative expected, and for a moment, Miranda was stupefied. Then her face hardened and she was all ice.

"That is highly classified information even _you_ don't have the right to know." She began to tap her keyboard again, not even looking at Shepard. The report in front of Miranda was infinitely more interesting than the once-dead thing in front of her, and that once-dead thing had half a mind to close the distance between them and unplug the damn laptop.

"Why? Because Cerberus said so?" Anger, hot and unbidden, explodes from the pit of her being. She has not a single shred of patience for Cerberus bullshit.

"No, you don't have the clearance for the files." And Shepard was supposedly the Commander of the _Normandy_. Funny how this woman had more power than she.

"But you could give me the clearance."

"I don't have the authorization to do so." Annoyance leached into her educated voice, and her jaw clenched. Her fingers now jabbed at the keyboard viciously; mimicry, perhaps, of what Miranda wished to do to Shepard.

"Stop jerking me around, Miranda." There was something the older woman was not telling her, and Shepard would be damned if she left that god forsaken room empty handed.

With a heavy sigh, Miranda glanced momentarily at her, brow furrowed deeply in vexation at the pest still in her office. "I'm sorry, Shepard, there's nothing—"

Shepard crossed the room and slammed the laptop shut.

"Tell me. " Shepard growled. "_Now_."

Momentarily, Miranda recoiled. Shepard was convinced she saw fear flash briefly in her eyes, but it was fleeting and quickly replaced by ire of her own. Miranda rose to her feet, easily matching Shepard for height in her high heels.

"I've told you everything I know." Steely animosity contorted the perfect woman's face; a feral snarl.

"Bullshit, Miranda," Shepard spat. "fucking bullshit."

"What do you want from me, Shepard?" Miranda was caged between a wall and a horrible monster of her own creation. Her eyes darted from Shepard to the door and back again.

"I want answers." Her voice was low and dangerous and hard.

"Don't make me repeat myself."

"Then tell me what I want to know."

With a heavy sigh, Miranda pinched the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes.  
"Shepard," she said, as if she were talking to a five year old. "Must I tell you again?" And then in an exaggerated drawl, "_I have told you everything I know_."

Shepard did not want to believe it, for Miranda's dark eyes told a completely different story. "Then why do I get the feeling you're not telling me something?" She dared to draw herself closer to Miranda, in some silly attempt to seem imposing.

"Leave."

"Not until—"

"The door is behind you, Shepard."

She did not budge from her spot, and for a few seconds, the two of them just stared the other down.

Then, in a matter of moments, Miranda sat back down at her desk, started up her laptop. Again, whatever was underneath Miranda's nails were infinitely more fascinating than the Frankenstein that stood before her.

"I won't stand for this." Shepard said into the icy silence that formed. "I am your Commander, and I demand answers." She raised her chin, looked down at Miranda from her nose as if that would settle the matter.

"And once again, I have disclosed all that I can to you."

"Stop toying with me."

"You can always fire me if you're truly displeased." An infuriating ghost of a smile played upon Miranda's thin lips. It sat there, taunting. Daring.


End file.
